Spiderwebs
by somethingsdont
Summary: CR. “We really need to wean you off this, Reese.”


A/N: Rating could be a soft R as well, I suppose.

* * *

He finds her in a seedy bar, hair flowing over her shoulders. She's wearing makeup. He doesn't remember the last time he saw her wearing makeup.

She's scanning, and he sees only the back of her head when she does, but he puts his money on the guy watching the Kings game, cursing loudly at the terrible puck-handling. Anger is a bonus, and he thinks this matters because she doesn't share his Zen philosophy. He's wrong (or maybe he's right and she's already given that guy a throw), because she chooses the man sitting four stools down. She stands and adjusts her shirt.

But Charlie's quicker than she is, and in the time it takes her to lock on, he's wedged himself onto the vacant barstool to her right.

She looks surprised to see him there, and there's a flash of anxiety (maybe; it's dark in the bar). It quickly turns to irritation. She gives him a moment to speak, but he turns to the bartender and orders a club soda.

"You here to tell me I shouldn't be doing this?" She tries to sound annoyed but it falls flat, comes out rather pathetic.

He doesn't look up. "No."

The bartender slides Charlie his drink and he slips the bartender a fifty, doesn't ask for change and the bartender doesn't push it.

She bites the inside of her cheek. "I've heard it all, Crews."

He nods and tips the tumbler to his lips. "I know."

She wonders how much he really does know and how much is just a bunch of bullshit that sounds deep until it's not. She contemplates going after the guy four stools down but a quick glance informs her that he's left, and she doesn't bother looking for him. Or anyone.

She sits back down. "Then why are you here?"

"To take you to the moon," he replies, no beats missed. He finally looks at her again. He smiles.

She ignores him, but his presence has deterred her from her nocturnal plans. She feels shame and misinterprets it as craving. She feels it between her legs, hollow, and her chest is constricting. She senses a headache coming, remembers withdrawal.

"Crews, you can't come here every day."

She's a lot more successful at expressing frustration this time. Her voice doesn't sound quite like hers anymore, brings her back to Snow Days. Snow fucking Days and Roman had been right; she tastes it still.

He nods again, repeats in the same inflection, "I know."

She wants to slap him but doesn't. He sits there and drinks his carbonated water until she sets off.

-/-/-

The next day, she finds a different bar (nicer; he'd never guess), her intent set firmer than ever because she needs it, _this_.

Thirty seconds in, she finds her target. He doesn't have a band around his finger, but she figures from the expensive suit and, as she approaches, the noxious aftershave and that shit-eating grin that he has someone at home.

She's learned who'll say yes, who'll say no (rare, but happens), and her personal favorite, who'll say no but follow her down the street like a homeless puppy anyway. Those ones hit the spot because they're protesting the whole time and it's rough. Loud and rough and she likes that. Punishment. She said it.

This one's too easy.

She leans on the counter, hovers over him by only half an inch even though she's standing and he's sitting, but the barstool's pretty tall. She catches his attention, and as he gives her a once-over and licks his lips, she doesn't feel disgust. Dopamine's leaking from her neurons and elsewhere, it's leaking, too. The anticipation's what keeps her here.

She makes a low humming sound.

"Buy me a dr—"

"Drill," a familiar voice interjects. "She means drill. Don't you, Charlotte?"

_Charlotte_? She spins around and she shouldn't be surprised. She finds she's not.

"Ours broke and I told her I'd pick one up from the Home Depot," he says, rolling his eyes in exaggeration, "but she insisted on coming here." He smiles like he's serious, and she's ready to wring his neck.

The man gives her one final look and politely excuses himself.

She's seething. "How the hell did you find me?"

Another club soda, another fifty. "GPS."

"I don't have GPS in my car."

He smiles, and something clicks with her. She's digging into her coat pockets for that tiny piece of metal that she thinks he must've planted. She can't find it, searches frantically in her shirt, her bra. It's not there.

"Glove compartment," he says, pushing the ice cubes around his tumbler.

She knows it's not there either, but later, on her way home, she still checks anyway.

She takes her car to be scanned for bugs. It comes up clean.

-/-/-

She stays home the next three nights and slowly grows insane.

The lieutenant even makes a point of asking her if she's had any slip-ups with the, _you know_. Dani tries to look offended and realizes that she doesn't need to try.

-/-/-

On the fourth night, she takes a bus downtown. Sure, they hadn't found anything in her car, but she's not taking any chances. She's reminded of how much she hates public transportation. The ride seems to drag on forever, but then she's there and dismounts. The anticipation's coursing through her again.

Twenty-three steps off the bus, her cell phone rings. It's him. He's got a lead on the case and wants to go check it out, unless she's busy. She's looking at the bar she's about to enter and wondering if she's being watched.

"Okay." She's throbbing. "But you have to come pick me up."

She gives him the address of a bookstore two blocks down and waits outside until he pulls up. She climbs in and buckles her seat belt.

"What'd you—"

He holds out his hands in front of her face. He's wearing a ring around his fourth finger.

_Oh shit_.

She swallows hard.

"We really need to wean you off this, Reese."

There's no debate. He drives her to his house.

-/-/-

It's strange until it becomes familiar. To her, the first time is more familiar than the second, and to him, second times are rare, too. This idea playing on repeat in her mind, she begins to think that what they have here is perfect in that fucked-up way.

She tries, can't help it, and for the first time in a long time, she feels dirty for trying.

He tries just as hard as she does to be careful with the way he lets her down, gentle, because this exercise would be a waste if he gives her what she seeks, what she had sought from other men.

She wants to forget, and he needs her to remember, so they tussle for dominance. She's winning, but all he wants is a stalemate. That's progress.

He gets distracted when she takes off her shirt and he finds that she's a lot more feminine than she lets on.

And at the end of the day, he's still a man with a penis, and she's still an incredibly hot woman with the expertise. He understands biology about as much as he understands physics (his dick is not erect; it's only more likely to be erect than to not be erect), but he understands this, her need. He's sensed it before with anger, when the desire for vengeance consumes him.

He tries to tell her that he had called her Charlotte in that bar because the spider was pretty Zen, but her lips are tugging at his and it comes out a jumbled mess of incoherent syllables, vibrates against her mouth. She moans.

He stops trying to talk.

She's rough, and it's _jaded_ and so fucking sad, like she's in too deep and doesn't even care to make the effort to stop. It's been almost a week, thanks to his persistence, and it's built up. The pent-up energy becomes too much for both of them.

When her hand reaches for his buckle, he stops her, and she thinks she understands why.

Eventually, she calms down, and even though she didn't get _that_ hit right _there_, she's gotten something. It's enough but barely. She pushes away and she's half-naked but somehow still professional. She dresses.

"Reese," he croaks, trying to catch his breath. He sees Pelican Bay at the back of his mind.

She doesn't say anything, but he knows she's listening.

"Straight home," he manages, images of bars and chains so vivid. "No rest stops."

She leaves.

-/-/-

The next morning, he's acting like nothing's changed even though everything has. She decides that if they can function without mentioning it, that's what they'll do. He seems to have come to the same conclusion.

-/-/-

Two nights later, he feels the bed dip under her weight. She climbs over him and tries. He thinks of physics (more likely, more likely…) and club sodas and spiders. He tries to tell her again about Charlotte, but she's grinding her hips at a torturous rhythm and his words catch in his throat. She leaves before she reaches his belt.

Two weeks later, it's routine. But it hasn't affected their work so nobody says anything. Ted probably knows, Charlie thinks, but maybe not; she only ever stays for half an hour, and only every second or third day, and Ted's a pretty deep sleeper anyway.

Two months later, there's progress. She climbs in and tries not to try. He talks about his limited understanding of physics (leaves out the part about his dick) and the club sodas he paid a hundred bucks for. He tries to distract her from the need.

"I called you Charlotte 'cause of the spider," he finally has a chance to say. "You know, Charlotte's Web?"

She looks at him for a moment and nods. "She was pretty Zen."

He smiles. "Yeah, she was pretty Zen."

She leaves without touching him once.


End file.
